


slowly

by milefolio



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Patient (Good Omens), Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Not Beta Read, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milefolio/pseuds/milefolio
Summary: Aziraphale was slow. He spent six thousand years dancing slowly, absorbing his feelings, observing its effects on him, trying to understand himself. He tried to read himself, curious to be able to decipher his own secrets, but he was not a book. He questioned himself countless times, knowing that his brothers and sisters in heaven would judge him. Maybe they would laugh at his face, maybe they would look at him with pity, or with contempt, or with anger. He prayed to God, but they didn't answer.But when did you ever say that loving was a sin?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	slowly

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I believe this fic doesn't have many triggers, it's almost a character analises, I think.
> 
> It gets sad, but it also gets better. I really hope you enjoy! And if you do, don't be shy, leave a comment (I'm needy).
> 
> (this is probably a mess)

##  **Can anybody find me somebody to love?**

Aziraphale has the tendency of being slow. He likes to fully appreciate everything he does: always drank his tea with lazy and contemplative sips, making the most of the warm and comforting feeling that the drink brought on the cold and cloudy days in Soho. He read his books with the utmost attention and patience, delighting himself in the passages and imagining a thousand interpretations, thrilling himself and learning — he took all the time in the world to read, and admired books with all his heart. He could spend whole days and nights committed in a single reading, and would spend at least a little of that time cultivating the material, passing his gentle and careful fingers on the old leather, the yellowish and rough pages, seeing how each book was made different. Some were so delicate, so old, and with pages too thin that the angel had to take extra care and some small miracles so it wouldn't fall apart in his hands. Other books would be of rough leather, pages made of something that reminded him of bulrush, of how harsh it was. Sometimes, the books reminded Aziraphale of people he knew. The angel would also eat slowly, making a point of honoring every flavor the cook had dared to put on his plate. Food was also something mundane that he ended up loving in his long time on Earth, if he could (and he did) Aziraphale would spend a long time just sitting in a comfortable armchair, reading a book, sipping tea, and nibbling on biscuits (although his favorite food is certainly French crepes).

But with Crowley, things seemed to be a bit different. The demon always appeared to be in a hurry, driving his Bentley recklessly and as if he's betting race with everything and everyone. Consistently acting like he was running out of time (but, _oh_ , if time wasn’t what he had the most, a blessed being — or cursed, in his case —, to live forever and ever). The human part of the angel (his corporation), seemed too, always thinking it was running out of time when the demon was nearby, his poor heart accelerating, as if it was making a bet with that cursed car of which one would be the cause of his discorporation. He could feel his blood running in his veins, and, in many occasions, he appeared to lose his breath, even if he didn’t need to breathe. At first, he thought that, perhaps, all of those things happen due to Crowley being a demon, his natural enemy. But, over the years, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t feel _that way_ in the presence of others fuel beings (although certainly the human instincts of his human body were always present when the angel was in the company of somebody he didn’t admire much) and, without a doubt, Crowley was far away of being an enemy.

Even though he thought about Crowley that way, he knew for sure that the fallen angel was someone of extreme danger. And not even on purpose. It was the snake eyes, lovely to the angel. It was the sympathy he still had, but tried to hide. To Aziraphale, Crowley wasn’t a curse, or a disgrace. He couldn’t be. He was full of defects, and he certainly succumbed from hell, but he was cold. You expect creatures like that to be hot, _effervescent_ , and ready to burn. But the snake was cold to the touch, missing the heat. So strange, for the divine, something so cold to be so gentle. He knew that, deep down, that was all that the warm-blooded one was looking for: someone to warm him up. _For it is so sad to freeze in hell, the certainty that you're alone._

He loves Crowley. Every single piece of him, even the ones he was supposed to hate; those were the pieces that needed love the most.

Aziraphale was slow. He spent six thousand years dancing slowly, absorbing his feelings, observing its effects on him, trying to understand himself. He tried to read himself, curious to be able to decipher his own secrets, but he was not a book. He questioned himself countless times, knowing that his brothers and sisters in heaven would judge him. Maybe they would laugh at his face, maybe they would look at him with pity, or with contempt, or with anger. He prayed to God, but they didn't answer. _But when did you ever say that loving was a sin?_

He was aware that his demon was waiting, and what afflicted his heart the most, was that perhaps he would have to wait forever. He couldn't ask for such a sacrifice. And he didn't. He tried not to ask, but he knew that his eyes — his human eyes, covered with human instincts and feelings that perhaps an angel shouldn't feel — had betrayed him. He imagined they had him, for Crowley always looked him in the eye, even through those dark lenses, and he waited. He waited for so long, and he was so patient. He was so careful. But how could he say no, when a gentle, silly angel looks him in the eye, sees your soul, squints a sad smile and says: _You go too fast for me, Crowley._ How could he not slow down?

After everything, after the apocalypse, the thought they would have, finally, some peace.

Everything was okay.

Since God didn't answer his prayers, the angel decided it was time. Eternity was almost over, and he was no longer so sure how long the infinite would last. But he knew he wanted to enjoy the rest of their lives.

He gladly accepted all the unknown instincts that his mundane body gave him, covered himself with the feelings that drowned his ears and left behind his doubts and fears: he took two glasses of wine and tasted the flavor of sin on the lips of the fallen angel. But he did it in his own way, slowly, appreciating and learning. He had never imagined that something so human could mean so many things, since the act itself was something peculiar. He liked to be this close to his dear one, and discovered that his reddish hair was as soft as it looked. Such a simple thing, to kiss. But Crowley seemed to enjoy it so much, hugging Aziraphale tightly and smiling gracefully as he explored the angel's blond curls with his fingers. He learned that kissing was something the other one really seemed to like to do slowly and smoothly, unlike everything else.

They didn't do more than that. For them, that intimacy was enough. And Crowley was warm enough, wrapped in angelic arms. Aziraphale was warm and comfortable: there was no one safer for a snake.

God could have mercy.

It happened so gradually, Aziraphale hardly noticed.

The first alarming sign was the food. The flavors were losing their taste. The tea tasted like water, all the wines were bitter, and when he realized it, he couldn't differentiate between salty and sweet. He knew he was being punished. He also knew he couldn't tell Crowley because he'd blame himself. But it wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault, really. Aziraphale had made his choice.He wouldn't go back now even if he could. For a week, the angel ate food that tasted like nothing, pretended that everything was delicious, and when he got home, unable to hold on, he threw up everything. From panic, maybe. He wasn't sure. He just couldn't stay with it in his stomach. The first time he threw up, he cried. The second and third time, too. He was totally unprepared for the situation, and he didn't know how uncomfortable the stomach acid in his throat was. He felt the pain, but the bitterness that humans complained about so much was not there.

The pain came slowly, too. It burned. He failed to hide what was happening from his beloved, since tears were running out of his eyes. But his back burned, and his skin seemed to melt. It was as if God was tearing out his heart. Brutally. With their own hands. And putting another being in his place. And that being was bad. He scratched violently, causing the falling angel to twist and bend. He cried and screamed a little as well. He fell. Fell. Fell. Fell.

But Crowley was there. He stroked his hair and said sweet words. And that was enough for Aziraphale to feel like his heart had returned to his chest. Because he wasn't alone. He'd be fine. He tried to ease his pain, caressed his hair, kissed his face and hugged him. Made him feel _good,_ for a while. And during that time, it was enough.

Turns out Aziraphale never finished falling. He'd have to stay in the limbo for eternity. He didn't know exactly why. Maybe hell rejected him. He would have been a terrible demon after all. The pains subsided, and when in the presence of his beloved, they were practically nonexistent. His wings were now a slightly bluish silver, but still as soft as ever. He still seemed to have the little being inside him, and he often still scratched him, or put bad thoughts into his mind. But Crowley always scared him away. As it was discovered, the little being was terrified of snakes.

It was a slow process. But he had Crowley by his side.

Always had.

Always will.


End file.
